


Bearing Gifts

by ACB1



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-05 09:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3114944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACB1/pseuds/ACB1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red comes to Lizzie on Christmas Eve. He presents her with a gift and some bad news. Her response may change their future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction story for The Blacklist, which I have watched and loved since the beginning. I am Lizzington all the way. I have enjoyed so many wonderful stories from this fandom that I decided it was time to try my hand at writing a little something. I welcome all comments and suggestions. Thanks to all who read this.

Bearing Gifts

Immediately upon answering her door, to the gust of cold and snow beyond, and to him, she wished she hadn’t. She could see upon first glance that something was amiss. He looked grave; there was no other way to express his countenance. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he smiled, but he looked pained. “May I come in?” 

“Yes,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing with her hand, shaking her head at her lack of manners.

He took note of her tree, a lovely, big Fraser fir, in the corner of her living room, warm with colored twinkling lights. It made him momentarily pleased that she found the time and desire to celebrate in this way. He wasn’t sure how she would handle the holidays after everything with Tom had come crashing down. But this sight made him optimistic for the future. 

He still stood admiring the tree with his hat in his hand as she entered the room. “May I take your coat, Red?” she asked, remembering her manners this time. He turned, lifting his brow at her question and began chewing at his bottom lip, as if he had never contemplated she would ask him to stay, even for a few minutes. 

“Come on,” she encouraged. “It’s Christmas Eve. I have some wine open and was about to pour a glass. Join me? Then you can tell me what’s going on.”

He nodded and took off his coat, handing it to her, along with his fedora. It was warm and fragrant, and she couldn’t help taking a deep breath as she lifted it onto the coat rack in her foyer. 

She headed into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of wine she had just selected along with two glasses. When she returned to the living room, he was still standing facing the tree, hands in his pockets. She sat on the sofa and poured the wine. She noted his unusual silence and felt very strongly that he was about to impart some very bad news. But, she had been trying her best to establish new Christmas traditions for herself and wine in front of her tree with some nice Christmas music playing softly was one of them. She didn’t want to ruin it before it ever came to be, so she chose not to push him for information that she knew would come soon enough. 

“Here is your wine,” she stated the obvious. “Come sit.” 

She pressed play on the remote to her stereo, already stocked with her favorite old Christmas CDs. 

The music seemed to take him out of his reverie, and he turned and walked toward her. He seemed absent of his usual jovial affectations. Serious and somber were rarely words she used to describe him, but, tonight, he was both, and she didn’t know why, but she could guess. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa from her and picked up his wine glass from the coffee table in front of them. He sniffed it and took a tentative sip. Of course, he would not trust her choice in wine out right, and it caused her to grin. 

“How bad is it?” She asked, still smiling.

“Not bad at all,” he grinned back, looking a bit amused for the first time since he walked in. “You chose well, Lizzie.”

“Well, I have you to thank for my growing knowledge.”

“I will happily take the credit for that part of your education,” he said, as he took another sip. 

They sat quietly for a few minutes and sipped at their wine and listened to the music. The tree gave them something to look at besides each other. 

When she had soaked up at least a little bit of what could be a happy memory, she turned to him and waited. He knew he couldn’t delay any longer. His reasons for being here had to be satisfied by her before she could completely relax. But, he found himself loathe to break the silence that had enveloped them. It was warm and peaceful. Lulling. Finally, taking one final sip of his wine, finishing the glass and placing it back on the table, he turned to her. 

His eyes tripped along her face. She was lovely in the light of the tree, serene, if a bit tentative – because of him. He would hold on to this image of her. 

“Lizzie, I have to go away for a while,” he said quietly. She had heard this tone in his voice before when she had told him she would be taking time off to spend with the baby. Sad, maybe, with a bit of longing creeping in. She didn’t know how to outwardly respond to that tone then, and she wasn’t sure she was any better at responding to it now. But, her internal reaction to it was instinctual. Her stomach clenched, her insides warmed, and she felt the urge to reach out to him in comfort. But, she had never reached out to him. It had only ever been the other way around. Her eyes closed against the conflict she felt. Then, another instinct, a new one, presented itself: the need to prevent his leaving, the need to keep him there by whatever means. In her mind, a big “No” formed in response to his statement. Afraid she might say it out loud, she opened her eyes. She found his eyes were fixed on her. She couldn’t guess what he was seeing. But, she knew what she was feeling. She was desperate to contain her emotions and desperate for him to stay. By doing one, she was bound to not achieve the other. Finally, she spoke, and knew she was failing to achieve her first objective. She sounded meek and frightened to her own ears: “Why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It is business I can’t avoid. It may take a while. I have talked to Harold, and I have given him some leads for the task force to pursue when I am away. It should keep everyone busy for the foreseeable future,” he explained. 

Her anxiety increased the more he talked. He was leaving directives, saying good-bye, giving her no return date and no good reason for going. 

“Are you in danger, Red? Is that why you’re leaving? Did something happen? Something you don’t want to tell me?” Her wine glass, still in her hand, was tipping forward as she unconsciously leaned forward, toward him. He reached for the glass, taking it from her and touching her fingertips in the process. The touch startled her, so fixated she was on the bigger problem facing her. 

“I don’t want you to spill on your sofa,” he explained softly. 

“Will you tell me?” She wanted to be angry at him and demand answers, but that emotion was several layers down, packed tightly underneath others demanding attention.  
He sighed. “Lizzie, I wanted to tell you Merry Christmas and to give you something before I go.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled a rectangular box from his breast pocket.

It was festively wrapped in red, white and gold with a small, elegant bow on top. Before extending it to her, he made a request: “This is for you to open tomorrow. Will you wait?”

She didn’t take the present from him. She just looked down at her now empty hands. He wasn’t going to answer her questions. He wasn’t going to stay if she made a desperate plea. She would only embarrass herself. He had helped her get rid of any evidence of the debacle with Tom on the ship, she had a new home and a Christmas tree. Maybe she just needed to be grateful – for her life, for him and his role in it, whatever that was. Maybe she needed to learn to not force things, to push to get her way, damn the consequences, as Tom had accused her of on the ship. Maybe she needed to start anew and be grateful. And, hopeful. 

“Are you going to come back?” She asked, not looking up at him. Her voice had strengthened a bit, she was happy to hear. 

“Lizzie?” He tilted and ducked his head to get a view of her face. “I don’t want to leave, and I am not at all pleased with the timing of this. I don’t always have a lot of choice in the matter. But, I will be back.”

She finally looked at him. “Okay. I will take my gift now. I’d like to put it under the tree, if you don’t mind.”

He happily passed it to her open hand, but didn’t let it go when she began pulling it to her. “Not until tomorrow, remember?”

“Red, I do have some self-control. I will wait until tomorrow,” she agreed, and he let go of the gift, chuckling at her comment, not fully believing her claim.  
He stood up then, preparing to leave. She felt desperation crawl up her spine again, and she stood as well, hoping to tamp it down. To busy herself she walked over to the tree and placed the gift underneath it carefully. 

She turned to him then, finding him standing close, and before she could overthink it, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. It would be a while before she saw him again, so she allowed herself the pleasure of his touch and smell. She hoped it would help get her through his absence that would certainly be filled with loneliness and uncertainty. She placed her cheek against his and whispered “Merry Christmas” in his ear before pulling back. 

His eyes shone bright in the darkened room, whose only illumination was from the twinkling Christmas tree lights. She allowed herself a few moments of looking into them and holding on to his forearms, before pulling back entirely. She had already given him more of herself in that good-bye than she had meant to give, and it would not serve either of them if she lingered in his arms. Turning away she moved toward the coffee table to pick up their empty wine glasses, taking them into the kitchen.

He stayed riveted to his spot, standing near the tree. She had let her proclaimed self-control slip, and he was amazed by it, pleased, to finally have it directed toward him in a positive way.

When she returned she had his coat and hat. It was time to go. He had stayed too long, every minute making the leaving more difficult. He slipped on the coat and carefully placed the fedora on his head. “Merry Christmas, Lizzie. I will see you in the new year,” he said. He was less somber she noted. Not light, but lighter than when he arrived, as if a burden had been lifted. Maybe it was as difficult for him to tell her he was leaving as it was for her to hear it. That was a small comfort.

As they walked to the door, she touched his sleeve. “Be careful, Red. And, thank you for the present.”

He nodded and searched her face one last time. She stood still and let him. He gave a final nod and walked out. She closed the door and leaned against it, not feeling the cold seeping through. As desperate as she was to keep him, maybe she already had him. Maybe.


	2. The Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lizzie opens her Christmas gift from Red.

Bearing Gifts – The Present

Liz passed the rest of her Christmas Eve quietly. She wasn’t lonely, necessarily, and she wasn’t sad. She felt contemplative. Her music played, she finished off the bottle of wine, which really was pretty good, if she said so herself, and then she lay down on the sofa facing the tree. As she watched the twinkling lights, she tried to focus not on Red’s leaving, but on the fact that he had come over to tell her he was going. After the incident with Anslo Garrick, he had called, and he had been in danger then. She hoped his showing up at her home meant he was safe and had business that couldn’t wait, as he had said, and nothing else. 

She didn’t want to dwell on the possible length of his absence. She would take it day by day. She needed to work on herself, to focus on moving forward now that Tom was really gone. She had spent months in a destructive spiral that, in the end, had made her feel disgusting and ashamed. Red’s presence on that filthy ship had brought it all home for her. What was she doing? What had she become? Her need to prove something – her worth, Tom’s worthlessness, her power, his powerlessness – had clouded all rational judgment. Ultimately, it was her need for answers that sustained that charade for four months. But, she had sobbed with relief when Red helped make it all go away. Looking into that ugly, vengeful part of herself had been more frightening than her years with Tom had ever been.

She needed to create a new life for herself, free of the past, or as much of it as she could be free of and still entertain Red’s place in it. She needed to understand who she was, where she came from and how Red fit in, but the truth was she didn’t need to understand it all right now. She needed to hold onto this memory of her first Christmas alone – without Sam, without Tom – but strong and at peace, and with the memory of the feel of Red’s cheek against hers. She drifted off to sleep listening to Frank Sinatra singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” 

When she woke, hours later, to Annie Lennox’s version of “Silent Night,” the sun was shining. It was Christmas morning. She sat up and stretched. The clock read 7:22 a.m. She had slept a solid eight hours on the sofa, and despite a little stiffness in her neck from not moving at all, she felt good. Her eyes immediately turned back to the tree and what sat underneath it – Red’s gift to her. As much as she wanted to rip it open, she wanted to savor it, too. There weren’t many gifts under her tree –one from her Aunt June, another from a cousin, one from an old college girlfriend, and Red’s. She took them all in, there under her beautiful tree. She decided she was going to savor them all a little longer and went to make some coffee.

Coffee led to a shower, which led to dressing and drying her hair. She knew now that she was stalling. That if she were honest with herself she would admit to being nervous about opening Red’s gift. What could it be? She hadn’t gotten him anything, though she had thought about it and hemmed and hawed so much that in the end, when she figured she wouldn’t see him over the holidays anyway, she decided it was better to stop stressing over something that wouldn’t even come up. She took a deep breath and walked downstairs. “I am being ridiculous,” she said aloud. 

Sitting in front of the tree, she began to open her gifts – from Aunt June, she received the latest novel by her favorite author and a framed photo of herself and Sam taken at a party at Aunt June’s when Liz was about 10; from her cousin, Amy, Aunt June’s daughter, a soft, blue wool scarf, that felt like heaven; and from her friend, Caroline, a bottle of their favorite perfume from college, the one they still talked about and could never find anywhere, with a note: “I found it! Love you, my friend, and miss you.” By the end of it, she was in tears. She felt loved and known, which was something she hadn’t felt in months. And, the sheer bliss of it forced a sob from her. It felt good to weep. She was alone in her own home, and she didn’t have to hide or protect herself from anyone. It was okay to feel something, and she allowed herself to, fully, for the first time in a long time.

There was only one gift left, and she was a mess. She dried her face on her shirt sleeve and sniffed a few times. Then, she reached for the gift, picking it up, feeling the weight of it, and smoothing her fingers over the satin ribbon. Taking a deep breath she began to slowly unravel the bow and pick away the thick, lux paper. All the while she told herself that this wasn’t so monumental; he had given her gifts before, momentos from places he had been. Once she had even asked him if he had brought her something, but she had only done that to cover for her nervous excitement at his return after the Anslo incident, not because she really expected something. She remembered wanting to kick herself for not being able to hide the smile she knew graced her face when she realized he meant to stay, that his self-imposed sabbatical was over. She was pleased and relieved to have him back, but she didn’t want him to know that. 

The wrapping gone she stared down at a lovely black velvet rectangular box. She slowly opened it, revealing a beautiful silver case with her initials engraved on it. Pulling the case out of the velvet box, she ran her hand over the top, feeling the etchings of her monogram - EKS – in elegant script. Opening the case, brought a slight creaking to its hinges, and revealed her true gift, fine linen stationery, also engraved with her monogram, and a beautiful silver pen. Then she noticed something taped to the top of the case. It was an envelope with an engraved red ‘R’ on it. 

She slowly unstuck the envelope. Running her fingers over the ‘R,’ she took a deep breath and opened the envelope. One hand unconsciously came to her mouth as she read the handwritten letter inside:

Dear Lizzie, 

If all has gone well, you allowed me to give you this gift and are opening it Christmas morning. So, first, Merry Christmas, Lizzie. I wish I could be there to tell you in person, but, as you read this, I am likely far away. Second, I must confess to you that my choice of gift for you is self-serving. As my time away may be lengthy, I ask that you write to me, Lizzie. It is currently not prudent to stay in touch by phone or other means of current technology. But, that is no matter, as I prefer the pen, if you will indulge me.   
I have included self-addressed envelopes to a variety of post office boxes around the world. Send your letters to any of them, and I will get them. I will respond in kind no matter where I am. Let this letter be the first in our correspondence.

Yours Truly, 

Red 

After reading the letter, twice, she picked up the stack of envelopes in the case and began sorting through them. About halfway through the stack, she found the addressed ones - typewritten addresses that spanned the globe – from Auckland to Malta, from Berlin to San Salvador. How would he ever get her letters and get them in any kind of timely fashion, she wondered. But, she was confident he would, somehow. Beyond the technicalities, she wondered why he wanted her to write. It made her worry again about the potential length of his absence and the reason for it. Then, she remembered his face from the night before, so somber and serious, and the sound of his voice that held something that knotted her insides. And, she remembered his warmth, his smell, the touch of his fingertips, and his gaze. She would write to him, and just knowing that felt intimate, the anticipation of it exciting, nerve wracking and so very, very personal. He had managed to give her something so much more necessary than the tangible – with this gift, he had given her a lifeline. 

She joined some old friends for Christmas dinner, and when she returned home, she sat, much as she had done with him the night before, in front of the twinkling tree, and wrote him back. 

She wrote him for months. And, he wrote back, his answers arriving in a variety of ways and in all shapes and sizes – by UPS in a box large enough for a TV, by courier in a large manila envelope and by US mail with a return name and address she had never heard of. Soon, she couldn’t wait to get home to check her mail and read his words. And, while at first she had been tentative in her approach to writing him, guarded and somewhat formal in her delivery of information and in the kind of information she provided, she soon relaxed, slipping into a conversational style that belied a close relationship of confidantes.

Her writing was, in turns, humorous and energetic and nostalgic and melancholy. She found she couldn’t hide herself from him in her letters. Her truth came out. And, the more she wrote him, the more she had to say. It was a compulsion. It was cathartic. Maybe because she didn’t have to face him, it was easier to say certain things – like yelling something in a vacuum or telling sins to a priest. She could write it down and send it away. Her hopes, her dreams, her fears, her desires – in the end she shared them all. 

Because he was gone for a long time. 

Long enough for her to make sense of her life and to wonder whether he had known all along that this was how it would be. Did he know that given enough time, space and the opportunity she would work out what she needed and what she wanted. That she would gain clarity? 

Writing to him had helped her figure out her future. And, after months of reading his eloquent writing, his poetic, witty and endearing words that stirred her and urged her forward to an undefined something, she came to a realization that caused her to put down her beloved silver pen and pace the floor of her bedroom. When she was finally able later that night, she penned the last letter she would send to him. 

After that she focused - she worked, ran in the evenings, read at night after her shower, and wrote in a new journal she bought herself. Her routine was comforting. It helped her maintain her resolve. It had been six weeks since she mailed her last letter. It was fall in Washington and already crisp outside. She lit a fire for the first time since the previous winter and turned on some music. She settled on her sofa with a glass of wine and her journal and pen. She began to write. Nearly an hour later she was jarred out of her thoughts by a soft knock at the door. 

Pushing away her blanket she got up slowly, uncertain. She approached the door quietly, seeing no car outside her window. She wore a soft sweatshirt, sleep pants, thick fuzzy socks, no rope and a scarf, not attire for entertaining. The lack of a peephole forced her to speak, “Yes?”

“Lizzie.”


	3. The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red has returned after a long absence to find Lizzie has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read this story. I am very grateful for all the comments and kudos. You have made this first-time Lizzington writer feel very welcome.

She gasped. It was him. Nine and a half months had passed. And, he was here. She had bared her soul to him on fine linen paper, but now she was afraid to face him. He knew her better than anyone, and that gave him so much power. And, both of those things scared the hell out of her. Her mouth was dry, and she was trembling. Dear God, get it together. 

“Lizzie. Will you open the door?”

She closed her eyes and swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Yes.” 

Leaning forward she turned the deadbolt and slowly opened the door. And, there he was, so much the same. Relief overwhelmed her. He looked healthy, aside from the shadows lurking under his eyes, and whole. She took him in, working her way from his shoes back up to his face. What she saw when her eyes finally rested there, when she finally allowed herself to really look, was such tenderness and affection that she began to cry, unbidden. 

He moved forward then, and when he got close enough, she didn’t wait. She pulled him into her arms and held him tightly, pressing her face into his neck, wetting him with her hot tears. She felt his arms go around her hesitantly at first, then fiercely. His deep sigh could be felt through her body, as he buried his face in her hair. He had come back. She closed her eyes tightly, reveling in him. At long last, he had returned. And she held him close for fear he might be a figment and disappear if she loosened her grip.

As her tears subsided, she pulled back a little to get another look at him. She kept her arms locked around his neck while she performed an up-close perusal of his face. He did the same but moved his hands to cup her face. His smile lit up his eyes in a way she had never witnessed before, and he shook his head a bit as he said reverently, “Beautiful, beautiful, Lizzie, how I have missed you.”

She knew she was beaming at him, but she was past caring about showing too much emotion to him. It was really too late for all of that. “I have missed you, too, Red. Very much. Where have you been all this time?”

“Out and about. We can discuss the highlights later. Can we go inside?” he asked, rubbing his thumbs over her cheeks. “You know, Lizzie? It seems you are always reluctant to let me in. And, honestly, I had the courtesy to knock when I could have just let myself in.”

She snorted at him, then, as he let go of her face and moved over the threshold into her foyer, processing into her living room. His sassiness did a lot to relax her, and she was grateful for the reprieve from her emotional state for a minute. She reached for his coat and was reminded of a similar scene nine and a half months ago in this room, but then he was going, and now he was staying. She hoped. 

She found him looking around her home when she returned from the coat rack. “Lizzie, you have made a lovely home here. It is warm and cozy. It suits you.” The compliment pleased and surprised her. He had seen the place before, but she had decorated some more since then, really settled in. And, he had taken notice of the changes. “Thanks. Please sit. I am going to get you some wine. I will be right back,” she said gesturing toward the sofa.

She took her time getting his glass and pouring the wine, getting her bearings. He was really there. She had a hard time believing it was real. He had taken up residence in her mind many months ago, and he was a very real figure there, one that she talked to everyday as almost an extension of herself. She was very comfortable with the Red in her head. It was the fleshy version she was out of practice dealing with, and she worried who they were to each other now. 

When she returned to him a few minutes later, to her horror, she found him reading her journal. “Red! Stop!”

He gazed at her unapologetically and took the wine glass from her lowered arm. Always about the spill the wine, that one. “It seems the letters in this book are mine to read, Lizzie. They are addressed to me. Their contents are reminiscent of the letters you sent me so faithfully for eight months – until you stopped. I’d like to know why.” 

“Why? What?”

“You know what I am asking. Why did you stop sending me letters a month and a half ago? You obviously didn’t stop writing them.” His eyes, a few moments ago so loving, were deadly serious. 

She turned away and stared into the fire, unwilling to face him and this just yet. She had no choice but to be truthful with him. There had been months of nothing but truth, but this particular truth had been too difficult and frightening to even put on paper, much less share in person. There was so much to lose. She had spent nearly a year establishing a new life for herself, creating a positive space in which to move forward. He was a big part of her ability to do that. To continue that trek forward, she needed to trust herself and answer him. 

She turned toward him then, and his face held the somber countenance it did at Christmas. Her anxiety made her neck stiff and jaw clench. She cleared her throat: “Red, first of all, I would like to tell you – in person – how much I loved your gift to me. You gave me something I didn’t know I would need. What being able to write to you did for me, I am not sure I can fully explain to you. It was, in so many ways,” she stopped, searched for the right word and found it, “transformative. I know that without having the outlet writing those letters gave me and having your words in return, I would not be what I am today. And, I am whole, Red. I have myself back, my life back. I know who I am again. I never expected to get here by writing it all down, by giving it away, sharing it with you,” she rubbed her scar as she spoke, the anxiety acute. He continued to stare at her, his face unreadable. “I can never thank you enough, Red.”

She paused to breathe, having got on a roll now, but when she opened her mouth to speak again, he beat her to it. “I am pleased for you, Lizzie,” he said. But, he didn’t sound pleased at all. He sounded lost, she thought, and that wasn’t what he should sound like right now. “The year has been good to you. I am happy to have had a part in that.” But, he didn’t look like he believed he was a part of it. He looked like he was being let down easy. “Is that why you stop writing to me? Because you got what you needed from it? Is that the answer?”

“I am not done answering you, Red. I am trying my best to make you understand,” she said, shaking her head, worried that her spoken word lacked the clarity of her written word. “I needed our correspondence to end. I made a decision, and for it to stick, I needed to stop sending you letters. I wrote that it would be my last letter to you, the last one I would send. But, I never stopped writing them. I think you saw that,” she said gesturing to her journal. 

He stood up then and spread his hands out at his sides in a hopeless gesture. “What decision?”

“Before I answer, may I ask you something, Red?” she ventured.

He shrugged his shoulders in frustration and acquiescence. 

“Why did you want me to write to you? Did you know you would be gone as long as you were? Did you believe, in some way, this would help me? Did you know it would change me?” Her eyes searched his. Of all the times she needed answers from him, this time was most important. He needed to answer her honestly if she was going to answer him.

He moved toward her, finally. Tight with tension, he blinked several times in rapid succession as he stood before her and tapped his leg with his fingertips. She knew his tells. He was nervous, too. He spoke slowly, carefully and with a hint of frustration: “My gift to you was purely self-serving, Lizzie. I told you that. I needed to keep you close, to keep track of you, to know how you were and if you were safe. I couldn’t bear to be away with no possibility of contact with you. That much is very, very true. Leaving had not been part of my plan, especially not then. I gave you the tools to write to me with only a dim hope that on occasion you would indulge me with news of yourself.” 

He smiled then, narrowing his eyes and scrunching his brow, “But, what came was a revelation, a most welcome revelation. You were,” and he shook his head and took a deep breath and let it out his nose, “enchanting, bewitching. I could scarcely make it through the day without having a page to read or reread. You were so alive to me on those pages. I would never have made it all these months, some of them difficult, without the solace your letters gave me.” 

He sighed and seemed to come back to himself then, “But, to answer most of your questions, in short, no. I did not know I would be responsible for changing you and doing so to such an extent that you would not want to correspond with me any longer.”

“No,” she emphatically shook her head. “I never said I didn’t want to correspond with you, just that I needed to stop.”

“Again, I ask you why,” his frustration growing.

“Because I needed something else.”

“What did you need, Lizzie?” 

“I needed you,” she practically yelled. “The real you. Not words on a page. I needed you here. I needed to hear your voice and not just my memory of it. I needed to hear you laugh at my stupid jokes that you praised even though, come on, they were pretty lame. But, you only told me they made you laugh. I needed to hear it. I needed to smell you, Red. My God, are you even aware that you smell delicious? And at Christmas, your cheek, it was so soft. I needed to feel you again. I needed to see that you really existed. I needed to know that the things I wrote, the way I felt, that you felt them, too. I needed to know I wasn’t alone,” her voice continued to escalate in pitch and volume as she went on, unaware of the change in his expression. 

He moved his hands from his sides and placed them on her hips. The touch shut her up – instantly. “Lizzie, did you believe discontinuing our correspondence would make me come back?” he asked, his voice deep and lilting.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“You were right.”  
“I know you, Red. You may know me, but I know you, too,” she gave him a soft, shy smile. 

“Hmmm,” he tilted his head and considered her words, while chewing on the inside of his mouth. “So you do, sweetheart, so you do. You have masterfully manipulated me.”

Her confidence was building, because if his expression was any indication, he did not mind the trickery. “It was time for you to come home, Red. I needed you to come home – to me.” She brought her arms up and placed them around his neck. His hands tightened at her hips. “My decision to stop sending you my letters was self-serving, purely and simply. I guess we are both, at our cores, selfish creatures. But, I am sorry if I hurt or confused you.”

“Lizzie, I have to admit something to you,” his thumbs stroked her hips slowly and hypnotically.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly.

“I think you smell delicious, too. You have changed perfumes,” he moved closer to her, and brought his nose to her neck, causing her to shiver. 

“I got it for Christmas. It is my favorite,” she struggled to say, distracted by his proximity.

“I will buy you gallons of it,” he said, his breath tickling her neck. “I worried you had tired of me, and that’s why you stopped writing. I worried that you had found someone else to talk to, to spend time with and tell jokes to, someone else to tell your secrets to.”

“Never,” she breathed.

“Your scarf matches your eyes. It is divine, but forgive me, it is in my way,” he said as he slowly pulled it from her neck and tossed it onto a chair. His mouth connected fully with her neck then, and his open-mouth kisses scrambled her mind. 

“It was a Christmas gift,” she whispered, stifling a moan. 

He pulled away then and looked at her with heavy-lidded eyes, “You had quite a Christmas, Lizzie.”

“Life changing,” she said, finding his hand and tugging. “I am glad you like my home, Red, but you haven’t seen the upstairs yet. There is one room, in particular, I’d like to show you.”

“I’d like to see everything.”

She led him to the stairs. “Oh, you will.”


End file.
